Page 44 of Summer’s Echo

My mother’s tone was cool, but beneath it lay thecutting edge of her infamous nice-nastiness. “Our daughter has a scholarship to Spelman College. She, too , has a future.”

The room feltlike a battlefield, the strain between our parents like an invisible tug-of-war. Then,Mrs. Abara spoke, her exhaustion bleeding through her voice.

“That is not what my husband is saying at all.” Her tone wasmeasured, tired, like she’d spent the last few days having this same conversation behind closed doors. “We’re not happy about this either. But what’s done is done. Now, we need to figure out what comes next—for both of them.”

Echo and Istole a glance at each other, somethingunspoken but understoodpassing between us.

While our parents sat there talking over us, debating ourfutures as if we weren’t even in the room, neither of us had been given the chance to saywhat we really wanted.

Mr. Abara looked at his wifeincredulously, shaking his head, his frustration boiling over.

“What comes next? What comes next is our son losingeverythinghe’s worked for. This girl— your daughter —has completely derailed his life,” he scoffed, tossing his hands up in exasperation.

Astunned silencefilled the room for all of half a second before my parents’ voiceserupted in unison. “ Excuse me?”

My body went rigid, mynarrowed eyes locking on to him.How darehe put this all onme? I shot a glance at Echo,hoping, needing him to say something, and sure enough, he was alreadyglowering at his father.

“Wait just one damn minute.”My father’s tone wasedgy, unwavering.

“You are going to respect my daughter in my house. And let’s be clear, our daughter didn’t get here on her own.

Your son holds some responsibility here, too.

” His voiceheld no room for argument, and from the way his fists clenched, I knew that if he weren’t trying to remain civil, he’d have already escorted Mr. Abara to the door.

“Yeah, Dad. Chill,”Echo muttered.

Mr. Abara shot daggers at his son, and for a second, I thought he was going tosmack Echo upside the head. His glare turned venomous.

“Iknewthey were more than just friends. This—”Mr. Abara gestured wildly at both of us. “This so-calledfriendshiphas been unhealthy since day one.”

My parentsdidn’t even argue with himon that point.

Echo turned to me, and when our gazes met,we both had the same tear-filled eyes, the same silent, aching question: How did we get here?

And then suddenly,all hell broke loose. Both sets of parents were on their feet,arguing over what was best for their child. Mr. Abara was practicallyready to have me burned at the stake. Mrs. Abara kept talking aboutadoption.

My father wouldn’t evenconsiderkeeping the baby. Abortion was the only answer for him.

And my mother? She wasthe only onewho wanted the decision to beours. Helpless. Hopeless. That’s what we were. Until Echo snapped.

“That’s enough!” His voiceboomed,commanding the room, making all four parents freeze.

He stood to his full height,taller than both our fathers, his chest rising and falling in deep, sporadic breaths.

His jaw was tight, his nostrils flaring, buthis voice was clearwhen he spoke again.

“Do Summer and I get to say anything? This isourdoing—ourbaby.”

My father’s glare turned cold. “You’ve said and done enough, young man.”

And just like that, he and Mr. Abara, two men who hadn’t agreed on anything today, were suddenly on the same team.

But Echo didn’t care. He ignored them, his long stridesclosing the space between us in secondsbefore kneeling in front of me.

His handsfound mine,cradling them, his grip warm.

He kissed my fingers, one by one, his lips lingering just enough to make my breath hiccup.

I felt his thumbswipe away the tearsI hadn’t even realized had started falling.

The world—our parents—blurred into nothing.

For a fleeting second,it was just us. Like we were back in our sacred place.

His voice, when he finally spoke, wassoft but sure, full ofa certainty that I didn’t expect from him—maybe not even from myself.

“Summer, I love you.” He halted, scanning my eyes to ensure his message was received. For good measure, he said it again. “I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this happened like this, but I think…I think we can do this. We canhavethis.”

Ifroze. We can have this . His words sat heavy between us,full of meaning I couldn’t yet process.

My eyes widened,my throat closing around all the words I wanted to say but couldn’t.

Becausewhat was he saying, really? We could havewhat?

A baby? Withno money, no education, no plan?

That wasn’t the future I had envisioned for myself.

I was supposed togo to Spelman, major in marketing, become student council president, pledge a sorority, go to parties, live my life, graduate on the dean’s list in four years.

A baby withEcho’s tawny brown skin, his full lips, my bright eyes, full cheeks, and dimpleswasn’t a part ofthatplan.

“E,”I whispered, placing both hands on his cheeks, my thumbs brushing away the tearsthat neither of us could stop.

His eyes, full of hope, fear, love, and desperation, searched mine. “We can do this,”he repeated, his voice barely above a breath. Then, he pressed asoft, sweet kissagainst my lips, sealing us inside our own fragile bubble.

Our parents watchedin agonizing silence, their presence barely registering, though I caught Mr. Abara shifting as if he was about to say something. But before he could,my mother raised her hand, silentlycommandinghim to letusfigure this out.

“Echo…we’re only eighteen. We can’t raise a whole human.” My voice trembled, my words laced with aheart-wrenching mix of guilt and finality.

His brows drew together, realization dawning as my words veered in a direction he hadn’t expected.“People do it all the time. We’re the smartest people I know. We can do anything, Sun.” His optimism, his belief in us, ripped me wide open.

I shook my head, lips pinched tight. His hopefulness was endearing, but it did nothing to change my mind.

“And people fail, E,”I whispered, my throat raspy.

“We had a plan, remember? SpelHouse connection.” The weight of my gaze didn’t just remind him, it called out to him, begging him to remember.

To rememberwho we were just a week ago before this.

To rememberthe future we were supposed to have.

I saw the exact moment ithit him. The subtle swing in his expression, the way his shoulders saggedjust a little.

Echoknew mebetter than anyone, and I could feel it.

He already knew my decision. I didnotwant this baby.

I had made amistake, and I would carry it with mefor the rest of my life, but Iwasn’t ready to sacrifice my future.

Our foreheadsmet, our lipshovered, each conjoined breaththe only air we had left to breathe.

And then, I said the wordsthat shattered him.

“I love you, Echo. I am so sorry, but I–I can’t do this. I can’t have this baby.”

He went completely still, his fingers tightening around my waist. His grip was firm, almost desperate, as if holding on to me could somehow stop the ground from shifting beneath him.

His gaze locked onto mine—frantic, searching—like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare he didn’t know how to escape.

But I didn’t waver. I wasfirm. Resolute.

And whenthe finality of my words hit him, I felthis entire body break.

His headcollapsed into my lap, his arms clenched around me as hesobbed, raw and heart-wrenching tears.

I bent over him,resting my cheek atop his, folding my arms around his shoulders.

And together,we cried, our sobsblending into the most devastating, harmonic melody, a sorrowful lullaby that only we would ever sing.